Wolf Templar
by Brother Andyn
Summary: This is my warhammer story, based immediately after the events of the Storm of Chaos campaign. Please review it!
1. Storm's End

Prologue: Storm's End

The beastman lunged forwards, its crude axe raised. Curved horns crowned its brow and its red eyes gleamed with undying hate. A barbaric war cry burst from its fanged maw, and the axe descended. Sparks flew as the hammer blocked the weapon length-wise. A counter-attack knocked the creature's shield from its claws then smashed into its long snout as the blow was reversed. Black blood erupted from the damaged face and the beast staggered. The warhammer didn't allow its foe any respite and slammed into the forehead where the Blood God's mark had been carved. There followed another explosion of inky gore and the beastman slumped, the axe falling from nerveless fingers.

'Ten,' Aethur snarled,' stalking away from the ruined corpse, seeking new prey.

It didn't take long for more prey to materialise. Another beastman, its brutish shape sporting massively muscled, hairy arms that gripped the haft of a rusty halberd, rushed towards the templar. Issuing a savage howl, Aethur revealed his elongated canines and swept his warhammer upwards. The stroke devastated the beastman's chest, battering aside the halberd and throwing up a miniature fountain of blood. It resembled a cistern on the side of a tree-covered mountain as the Gor pitched backwards, its hooves kicking up dust. Two smaller monsters converged on the templar before he could apply the coup-de-grace. Turning, he let loose a terrific bellow of rage, his eyes blazing with cold fury. One of the Ungors whimpered in fear, turning tail while the other hurled its primitive spear. Catching it in one hand and breaking it on the fallen beast's horns in one fluid motion, Aethur swung out at the offending creature. The hammer connected with brute force, tearing the Ungor's head from its shoulders in a bloody spray.

'Get back here you cowardly mongrel!'

When the fleeing beast did not comply, Aethur glanced about, hungry for slaughter. The beastmen were engaged in a skirmish against weary soldiers, a last, desperate attempt to enter the city. But Aethur knew their actions were futile. The war was nearly over, the invasion halted, like a chariot whose horses had been pin cushioned full of arrows. Archaon lived, but it was rumoured that he was preparing himself for a confrontation with Valten. Aethur cared not; they were both on the other side of Middenheim. This little clash, being fought on the outskirts of the Drakwald, was all that mattered to him at the moment, and it was turning into a massacre. Countless bodies of beastmen and mutants sprawled across the battleground, inter-mingled with the occasional dead militiaman. Blood both red and black stained the earth, which was decorated with discarded and broken weapons.

'The beastmen are in retreat,' reported Captain Richter, approaching Aethur whilst breathing heavily. The man wiped his hand across his sweaty brow.

'I noticed,' the templar spat, disgusted at his enemies' low morale. 'Wait...'

'What is it? Are they regrouping?' They were joined by the unit's vexillary, his blue and white tunic spattered with the filth of war. He planted the standard in the ground, leaning on it as he scanned the fringes of the forest. A horn blast split the quietening atmosphere, an ugly, unnerving sound that chilled the spine and spoke of lost humanity. Aethur slitted his eyes as he watched the beastmen's leader stride towards him. The air grew still, the wind calm, the columns of smoke rising from burnt out wreckage wafting gently on the breeze. Instinctively, Richter pulled his pistol from its holster and aimed it at the chieftain.

'No...he's mine,' Aethur said gruffly, waving for Richter to lower the weapon. The templar began to walk forward, a wolfish grin upon his face. The Gor Chief was tall, as tall as Aethur, some six feet, and had the well-built physique of a powerful warrior. Brawny muscles rippled beneath a chainmail vest, worn amidst a combination of mis-matched metal plates. Stolen Imperial tassets hung from the beast's belt, strapped to its upper legs with lengths of cord. Greaves, also of Imperial design, protected its shins, while a deadly array of curving horns pointed skywards from a bony skull. The symbol of Khorne was stamped between the goat-thing's crimson eyes.

'Blood for the Blood God!' The double-handed axe the monster wielded came scything at Aethur, who parried with the warhammer. Angered, and filled with berserk bloodlust, the Gor Chief struck again, its heavy build belying the uncanny speed it possessed. The axe blade sliced across the templar's face as Aethur threw himself backward, landing with a crunch. Red blood spilled from the newly opened gash, a scar that ran diagonally from his forehead to below his left eye. He howled in pain then rolled aside as the axe buried its head in the dirt where he had been. Gritting his teeth, agony coursing through his veins, he sent out a prayer to Ulric, dodging the blade a second time. Finally on his feet, he sent the warhammer crashing into the beastman's face, pulverising its right eye and knocking the creature sideways. In the second that it righted itself, Aethur span his hammer, ignoring the blood streaming down his cheek, and lashed out. The blow cracked teeth and broke the jawbone. He delivered a crippling impact to his foe's knee, bringing it to the ground with a yelp of outrage. The beast's back was next under the hammer, as Aethur roared his praise to Ulric, lifting the warhammer with both hands above his head. The Gor's spine shattered and a further blow to its neck crushed the life from it. Aethur kicked the carcass and spat on it. He sighed. It was only then that he realised his wound had stopped bleeding.

'You hurt me, chaos scum,' he growled, clasping the wolf's head pendant as he trudged away towards the Western Causeway.

The Wolf Templar strode into the Hall of the White Wolves' Grand Master. His boots echoed on the square flagstones and his gaze flicked about the impressive chamber. Huge pillars carved into the likeness of giant wolves standing on their hind legs and holding up the roof stood like titans on the edges of the room. The marble walls curved high up to form an arched ceiling from which hung a massive chandelier. The walls themselves were bedecked with life-size portraits of the Order's previous masters, often depicting them battling against various forces of darkness. Braziers were also mounted upon the walls, their dancing flames casting eerie shadows even in the bright light.

Two red-armoured knights flanked a dais at the head of the room, carrying their warhammers lengthways across their bodies. They wore the typical wolf skin cloaks of the White Wolves, and nodded in respect as he approached. In return he slammed his right fist against his breastplate before casting his eyes towards his chief superior.

Seated on his throne, a high-backed chair of polished wood and gleaming brass, the old man had the build and look of a veteran. Hundreds of battles he had fought, thousands of enemies he had slain. His haggard face sported an impressive white beard that stretched to his broad belt. He wore a vermilion tunic trimmed in gold edging and the silvery, full plate armour of a knight, over which hung a scarlet cloak adorned with snowy wolf fur. Twinkling, blue eyes gazed at Aethur with respect and consideration.

'So, you have acquired a new battle scar?' The voice was deep and resonated with the tones of ancient nobility.

'I have, Grand Master Barathor,' Aethur replied huskily. He rubbed his forehead. He knew it would distinguish him for the rest of his life. It was his divine tattoo, his mark of Ulric's favour. 'You summoned me?'

'I did. I did indeed.' Barathor proceeded to inform Aethur about the recent attacks on the Merchants' Guild. He spoke slowly, in his own time, and Aethur stood tall, trying not to let his mind wander.

'The chaos invasion has allowed cultists to run riot and cause all manner of mayhem and destruction during the siege of Middenheim. It is rumoured that they belong to the 'Brethren of the Golden Eagle.'

'Who does this cult worship?' Aethur feigned interest as best as he could.

'They follow one of the fell, Ruinous Powers, the Lord of Sorcery: Tzeentch.'

'And what would...'

'You will embark on a journey into the heart of the Ulricsberg,' Barathor continued. 'In the bowels of the deep, you will locate the base of this branch of the cult, and assassinate their Magister. This, Ulric willing, will halt the attacks and prevent the Brethren continuing with their vile plans in Middenheim.'

'When do I set out?'

'I suggest you select a chosen few, to assist you in this mission. I do not advise your brother knights...the company will have to be flexible in order for you to succeed. The Wild Wolf is plentiful with mercenaries. Perhaps you should try there.'

'Hmmm...I understand,' Aethur rumbled. 'Very well...'

'You will set out in two days' time. Remember, there are things older and fouler than Gors in the deep places of the world...'


	2. The Halfling

Chapter 1: The Halfling

The great wooden doors of the tavern slammed back against the grimy walls with a resounding crunch and a menacing silhouette paused in the entrance.

The Wild Wolf Tavern crouched between the smoky furnaces of the Black Wolf Hammersmiths and the renovated ruins of the Merchants' Guild. Visited regularly by the city's outlandish, independent adventurer population, it had recently been overwhelmed by a steady stream of freeblades, mercenaries and treasure hunters. Ever since the fall of Krudenwald, a place that had served as home to many footloose, young rogues as well as dwarf Trollslayers and the occasional Questing Knight, Middenheim had become the prime settlement for explorers and enterprise. Rumour had already spread of the infestation beneath the city, and many were eager to travel deep into the heart of the Ulricsberg in search of lost treasure and glory.

The Wild Wolf was a base, a control centre for mercenary companies in Middenheim. From here bands of vengeful warriors launched raids on the ruins of their former city, clashing in Krudenwald with its vile inheritors. Its reputation was fast growing for the best place in the city to recruit bodyguards, caravan escorts, bounty hunters, soldiers for hire and even assassins. Overflowing with gold-hungry mercenaries, even the grim, rough bouncers were ex-sellswords: the remnants of the landlord's old mercenary company. Regular troops generally avoided the Wild Wolf – this was where men fought for money, not some fool's perceptions of honour or personal power. Here men valued cold steel and the glint of gold over such things as the favour of the gods.

The walls of the Wild Wolf were worn and stained by years of ale. The paint had long since peeled off and hadn't been replaced; leaving a cold, stone look that suited the sellswords who cared nothing for décor. A roaring fireplace dominated the common room, and two spectacular, crossed swords were fixed above the mantelpiece, each one's hilt finely engraved with running wolves.

The tall man entered, his iron-shod boots causing the wooden floorboards beneath his tread to groan, as if tortured by the knight's presence. The cold light glinted on pointed canines. It glittered from golden eyes set in a handsome but rugged face framed by a shaggy, auburn mane. He was clad in frost-dusted plate armour that seemed perhaps a little big for him. He also wore a wolf-skin cloak that covered his massive shoulders, giving him the appearance of some gigantic snow creature.

Aethur silenced the surrounding drinkers with his mysterious stare and lupine aura, before his predatory gaze settled upon his prey. It was not unlike a hungry wolf considering its next meal. The barman, a large man with a full beard and a wolf claw tattoo over his left eye nervously hailed the templar as he closed on his chosen target.

'Aethur! How goes the…'

'Fine,' Aethur snapped, without taking his eyes off the halfling, who sat a small table by the fire. Partially frozen in stunned silence, the diminutive man set down the tankard that had been raised half way to his mouth. Aethur grabbed his shoulder roughly, hoisting him out of his chair and lifting him up to eye level. The halfling smothered a shocked cry of dismay, bravely meeting the templar eye-to-eye. Aethur examined his quarry, the way a dragon might analyse a particularly choice morsel before devouring it.

'So,' he growled, 'you're the one called Lightfoot?'

'Uh, yes, Folco. Folco Lightfoot…' The halfling gulped.

'You were meant to meet me under the statue.'

'Well, I, er,' Folco stammered. 'I got distracted.'

'Obviously,' Aethur sneered, looking disdainfully at the tankard below. He returned his gaze to the halfling, setting him back down none-too-gently. A woodsman and a ranger, Folco was garbed in green and brown, a hooded cloak falling over his back and clasped with a shiny brooch. Numerous pouches and other equipment adorned a cross-belt he wore across his chest, some of which, Aethur noted with suspicion, looked like they had nothing to do with hunting. As the sounds of banter began to re-emerge into the atmosphere, Aethur took a seat opposite Folco and slitted his eyes.

'What is a halfling doing in Middenheim, anyway?'

'I left Schnappleburg,' Folco began, hoping to become something more than little needed baggage.

'What-burg?'

'Schnappleburg, my home village. It lies in the Borderlands…'

'Just…get on with it.'

'Uh, well, Schnappleburg is an ill-defended, old-fashioned village. It's a collection of buildings inhabited by a number of peasants and their elders. The days are tense: there's not much to do, and every hour is strained, as if waiting for the next greenskin raid. That's what brought me here.' Aethur's ears seemed to prick up at the mention of greenskins. Seeing the sudden interest, Folco continued. 'Uh yes, Orcs, and Goblins. For many years, the town has relied on "hired thugs" for protection, but recently, the elders paid a bunch of heavily armed soldiers to defend our homes. A hard-bitten, mercenary company of horsemen and infantry, going by the name of the "Grudgebringers," and led by a ruffian named Bernhardt. They defeated the greenskins with almost no losses, they did. I was there. But enough of them, they got tired of Schnappleburg after only two weeks, and moved on. I remember Bernhardt grumbling something about peasants and ale money. Obviously not the heroic sort, I figured. Now it's garrisoned by a proper fighting force – the "Schnappleburg Militia," or so I am led to believe.'

'Hmmm…' Aethur grunted. 'Greenskins are supposed to be nearly as tough as the beastmen I've fought in the Drakwald. It is said that one orc is a match for several men. Or a dozen halflings,' he added. Folco's bright, inquisitive eyes looked up at the templar.

'So, when do we set off? Into the Ulricsberg?'

'We? Depends on whether or not I like you,' Aethur drawled, recalling Barathor saying something about Halflings being small, swift and unnoticeable. 'But I couldn't be bothered seeking out another halfling anyway.' He smiled, his fangs gleaming like icicles. The Wolf templar made a show of shaking the halfling's hand, nearly crushing it.

'Come, little man, there's a band of adventurers to round up. I'm sure…one such as yourself has an eye for "the heroic sort."'

'That I do,' Folco agreed as the duo made for the doors. 'It's in my blood.' He grinned impishly.

'Halfling blood,' Aethur snorted. 'Whatever.'


	3. Remnants

Chapter 2: Remnants

In stark contrast to the Wild Wolf, The Dead Rat was located in one of the most downtrodden, poorest districts in Middenheim. It was cramped down at the end of a narrow alleyway, surrounded by filthy hovels and a partly ruined Temple of Sigmar. It was not unlike a bedraggled, starving rodent, hiding down in the dark confines of a wet and miserable sewer. Only vagabonds and lowlifes visited this place, those with little money and even less position in society. Truly, the grim reality of life was realised here.

In this dusty, lonely den of peasants, Ladril felt safe from the teeming hordes of mercenaries who would outclass him and his comrade in the competition to get hired.

'A curse upon all Dwarf-kind,' he spat. 'I hope Durak's soul is consumed by darkness forever, and Azgrim never fulfils his oath.' A slender elf, he was silver-haired and possessed of a narrow, chiselled face. He was dressed in closefitting leather garments that were travel-stained and worn from many an adventure.

'The Slayer Azgrim will no doubt fulfil his oath,' the grey-robed man mused. He had many layers of thick clothing and a hood drawn down over his head. 'Let us just hope it is amongst a nest of snotlings, and not the dragon that he seeks.'

'Indeed. That son of…'

The elf's speech was drowned out by a howl of wind, an echo of shrieking spirits from the blizzard outside.

A huge figure materialised from the whiteness, stepping into the tavern and followed by a rather small person.

'It's a dwarf!' Ladril yelled, getting to his feet and unsheathing his sword. 'Kill it!'

'Patience, friend,' his comrade said gently. 'It is simply a halfling. Though what he is doing here, with a templar of the wolf god, I have no idea…'

The templar regarded the two companions sceptically, as Folco shut the door.

'You are the ones called the Avengers?'

'We are,' Ladril replied, sheathing his blade. 'I am Ladril; this is Alaric Greymane, of Altdorf. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?' Ladril's face became a porcelain mask, betraying no emotions. If this was a chance to earn redemption, it was not to be passed up. The armour-plated warrior crossed his arms.

'Alaric Greymane, the infamous sorcerer? I've heard a little about you. Don't worry, old one, it's not all bad.'

'I'm flattered,' Alaric hissed, sipping his schnapps. 'And by the way, I'm a Wizard.'

'I gathered that much. Sorcerer, Wizard, they're all the same to me. I am Aethur, knight of Ulric,' the templar continued. 'My small friend here…'

'Folco Lightfoot, at your service,' the halfling bowed. 'I believe you are in a spot of bother. We're looking for your types for a rather special mission.'

'You've come to the right people.' Ladril narrowed his eyes, trying to appear calm. 'We are specialized in all sorts of work. We can do whatever you ask.' This earned a look of slight annoyance from Alaric. Ladril ignored it.

'What about massacre?' Aethur parted his jaws slightly, revealing his fangs.

There was a moment of silence. Alaric set aside his drink and stood to join Ladril. His hard, grey eyes stared out from beneath his cowl like small chips of flint.

'What exactly is your mission?' The wizard raised an eyebrow.

'Are you the right people I want?' Aethur stared back, unblinking.

'Yes, they are,' chirped Folco. 'Remember, we must not delay.'

'I've still got another day,' Aethur grunted, not breaking eye contact with Alaric. 'Before I go into…details, just tell me what you do. I need to be sure that you lot are right for the job.'

'Very well,' Ladril said, catching on. 'I am skilled with my bow. My archery skills are unparalleled. Alaric's spells can aid in many ways.'

'Right whatever. I don't trust sorcerers. But you'll do.' Aethur blinked once, uncrossed his arms and began pacing. 'The mission is to assassinate the magister of a dark cult. They're called the Brethren of the Golden Eagle, Tzeentch worshippers. I intend to wipe them out.'

'I know of them,' Alaric inclined his head. 'I have battled with them in the past.'

'Good,' Aethur snarled, 'then you're interested?'

'Indeed,' Ladril said confidently.

'Perhaps,' Alaric followed suspiciously. 'What of payment?'

'We'll work payment out later,' the templar grunted. 'We don't have much time. Be ready to leave at sunset tomorrow. I'll meet you at the statue of Ulric in the square.'

The wolf templar wrenched open the door and swept through it, turning in the doorway. The falling snow whipped around him and his feral eyes glinted.

'And that goes for you too, Lightfoot. We leave at sunset, with or without you.'


	4. Ulric's Blessing

Chapter 3: Ulric's Blessing

The statue of Ulric stood tall against the dusky sky. He held his hammer in both hands, ready to strike down any foul beast before him. The sun was setting in the west, beyond the line of jagged peaks that was the Grey Mountains. Several stars had appeared, and Aethur ground his teeth, hoping the others would not fail him. He carried a bag with supplies, he wore his armour and his warhammer was slung from his belt, ever at the ready. This mission would test him, he knew. Maybe even provide an escape.

His golden eyes pierced the growing shadows, ignoring the looks he got from passers by. All knew he was a templar, but few knew of his gift. Sometimes he wished he could turn around and give vent to a howl, scare them out of their wretched skins. He smiled slightly at the thought. Before long he would be able to howl all he wanted.

'I wondered when you'd show up,' a cheery voice startled him. He turned to see Folco stuffing a worn book into his backpack. He was sitting up on Ulric's shoulders.

'What do you mean? I was here…'

'I'm afraid I was here first.' Folco yawned. 'Been here a while now. Have you ever read the work of Detlef Sierck? Tis great reading.'

'Uh…I've heard of him.' Aethur shrugged. 'Can you see anyone from up there?'

'Indeed, here they come.'

Aethur turned again to see Ladril and Alaric hurrying towards them. The wizard's robes billowed out behind him.

'Greetings, templar,' the wizard said. He hefted his pack. 'Are we right to go then?'

'We are.' Aethur narrowed his eyes. 'You were prompt. I would've expected you to be…late.'

'There's nothing for us here now, human,' Ladril spoke. He glanced over his shoulder. 'It is best that we away as soon as possible.'

'I appreciate your enthusiasm. Come, then, follow me.' Aethur shot a glance at the sky. The two moons would be rising soon.

The strange quartet set off through the streets of Middenheim. Most people had gone indoors, and the muffled hubbub of talking and laughing could be heard from behind the windows of the inns and taverns. Aethur's gaze flittered longingly from pane to pane. He would much prefer being indoors at this time. He would be sitting in front of a fiery hearth, surrounded by his brother knights, maybe even with a pretty barmaid on his knee. But he knew he had a duty to fulfil. And he was blessed.

'So, you have the blessing of Ulric?' Folco insisted on conversation even at the most pressing times.

'Perhaps,' he replied, not looking at the halfling.

Eventually they passed the gates into the poorest quarter of the city. All around them the houses were shoddily constructed, falling down and in general disrepair. Beggars lay on the pavement, huddled against the walls and the stench of unwashed bodies and grime hung heavily in the air. Occasionally a dismal cry would break the silence. There were no street lamps, and they were forced to make their way through dimly lit shadows. 'Through here,' Aethur grunted, indicating a dour building on the corner of a deserted intersection. Its blank windows stared like dark eyes. They had reached one of the far corners of Middenheim. He glanced left and right. It was strange that thugs or other misfits had not apprehended them in these slums. Not that they could stop Aethur in any way. He shrugged and pushed open the door.

The house was an abandoned shell. The dusty floor was scattered with broken furniture and smashed glass. The bar was covered in a layer of grime and huge dents marred its surface. Behind the bar lay shattered bottles and long-emptied beer barrels. Kicking aside the debris, the templar led the way through the room.

'What was this place?'

Aethur rolled his eyes at the halfling's inevitable question.

'Just another tavern.' He stopped at a hallway that gaped like a maw, leading deeper into the house. Its blackness was absolute. 'Got a light?'

'Yes, of course,' Alaric said hesitantly. He mumbled a series of words in the Lingua Praestantia, the arcane language of magic. After a moment the wizard's staff began glowing with a soft, yellow light.

'Impressive, for an old man,' Aethur chuckled. He tugged his warhammer from his belt and led the way down the hallway. 'Down here there's a cellar somewhere…'

'Knights,' Alaric spat, before following Aethur, holding aloft his staff.

Ladril readied his bow and followed. The halfling raised an eyebrow. What's this, he thought to himself. Surely there were no enemies to fight yet. What could possibly threaten us here, here in an old house on the edge of the city? They hadn't even entered the Ulricsberg yet…


	5. Tooth and Claw

Chapter 4: Tooth and Claw

The party descended a set of worn steps and emerged into a small and dingy cellar.

'Is this it?' Alaric demanded, glancing around the cracked and dirty walls. The room was small, and stacked with mouldering barrels and the smell of decaying wood hung in the stale air. Aethur was standing on the far side of the room and examining a small, square door. It was wooden and bound with brass bands, and a jagged hole had been hacked between two of its planks. A circular, iron ring was set on one side. 'Beyond there lies a tunnel that will take us into the Ulricsberg?'

'Silence, wizard,' Aethur spat. 'Can't you see I'm trying to listen?'

There was a pause during which no one spoke.

'What is there to hear, Aethur?' Ladril was calm and collected, unperturbed by Alaric's impatience.

'Just be quiet and listen.' The templar draw back and crouched, like a lean wolf quietly watching its prey. He held his warhammer loosely in both hands. Alaric huffed noisily, and then leaned his staff against the wall. Its constant, unflickering light cast the companions' faces into stark relief. The elf narrowed his eyes as he watched Aethur, coming to a frightful realisation. His thoughts were interrupted by the slightest of sounds, a shuffling coming from behind the door. The sounds continued for a moment, and then stopped abruptly. Ladril notched an arrow to his bow. Aethur turned and glanced at Ladril, Alaric and Folco in turn.

'I'm going to fling open this door. Whatever happens, trust me. Trust me, trust your aim and trust in Ulric.'

The templar wrenched open the door and immediately an overwhelming stench assailed his nostrils. It was foul, the reek of sewer filth mixed with unwashed fur. Dozens of tiny, red points of light blinked into existence and the shadows moved. A shrill sniggering filled the air and Aethur opened his mouth, charging forwards. A bestial roar ripped itself from his throat.

'What the…' Alaric stared aghast, and Ladril aimed and fired. His arrow penetrated the darkness as it closed in, producing a squeak of pain.

'It's a full moon, friend,' the elf replied, notching another arrow.

Aethur smashed into the black-clad figures, throwing the foe left and right to break against the walls of the narrow passage. He stood firm, his mind grasping the nightmares he saw before him.

The creatures were straight from folklore. They stood upon their hind legs in the manner of men, but resembled giant, monstrous rats. Chisel-like fangs protruded from their snarling jaws and they grasped a mixture of jagged, rusting blades with paws that sported raking talons. Naked, slender tails lashed the floor like eager tentacles as the ratmen surrounded him. He knew what these foul beasts were. They were known amongst some as the Skaven.

His warhammer swooped down in an overhead arc, splitting the skaven's skull. Before its corpse hit the ground the weapon lashed out again, hurling the next one back up the passage. He could feel the blood coursing through his veins, the changes brought about by his unique condition affecting him. His back straightened; pulling his shoulders up and he gave vent to a howl of agony. The noise alone caused the skaven to pause, allowing him to swing again. A skaven head burst like a melon, showering him with black blood. Another died as the warhammer swept it from its feet, crashing into its fellows and sending them to the floor.

Then there was an intense flash that spread outwards like a miniature nova. The light temporarily blinded the skaven, throwing off their guard and opening their defence. At the heart of the radiance Aethur was transforming. His body began to swell, his muscles rippling and fitting his armour more fully. Bones shifted and altered, filling him with unnatural strength. White fur sprouted from beneath his pauldrons, vambraces, tassets and greaves, but his gauntlets and boots remained in place. His legs elongated, causing him to stand a foot taller than he already was, his head brushing against the tunnel roof. With each change he roared like a maddened beast, his pain lashing out and killing everything within reach. Soon he was surrounded by dead skaven, their bodies blocking up the passage. Finally, the templar's mane grew thicker and turned snowy white, his face changing to match the snarling, and feral features of a wolf. He resembled a wolf-man in the same way the vile Skaven resembled men. As the aura faded, a howl of battle lust tore through the air.

'Ulric be blessed,' Aethur growled from lips never meant for speaking. The skaven in front of him squealed and fled, but Aethur was too quick. With one gauntlet closed around his silver pendant, his warhammer smashed the creature's back, unleashing a torrent of blood and felling the two halves of its broken body. Three skaven rushed at him with spears. He snarled and bared his fangs, his golden eyes flashing with inhuman rage. He swept the weapons aside. Grasping the neck of the first skaven, he swung it like a living club and smashed the others away like broken dolls. Striding forwards imperiously, he struck out again and again, ripping throats and tearing limbs from sockets. There was blood everywhere. The screams of the skaven sliced the air and Aethur showed no respite. In the tightly packed ranks he couldn't miss and soon his white fur was stained black. With each kill he bellowed, his golden eyes flaring with joy and his teeth gleaming like daggers.

Ladril watched his leader's transformation with a mixture of horror and awe. This was like nothing he had ever seen. Here was something from the old times: a creature of ancient power and ancestral heritage. Aethur was more than just an Ulrican Templar, a Knight of the White Wolf. Aethur was a Child of Ulric.

Beside him the wizard stared in terror. A further glance told him Folco was grinning contentedly.

'Mutant!' Alaric shouted, his eyes wide with fear. He raised his staff, preparing to unleash some arcane spell. Ladril swiftly held him back with one arm.

'Careful. I believe he's on our side.'

'Are you sure?' The wizard's eyes were locked on Aethur. 'They say Chaos tainted the Children of Ulric, that now they feast on human flesh…'

'Forget your wives tales,' Folco interrupted. He pulled a knife from his belt. 'Aethur is no mutant.' He sent the knife spinning, end over end. The small blade flashed in the light, coming to rest in a ratman's throat. 'Attack! He needs our help!'

'My foot he does,' Alaric grunted, blinking. Nevertheless he began chanting the words to a spell. Shadowy mist writhed about skaven throats, choking and throttling. Ladril aimed and fired. In one fluid motion he took another arrow and fired again. Each arrow found its mark, bringing down another enemy. Aethur roared his appreciation and kept on killing. Some of the ratmen dashed past the wolf-man, risking their chances with the others. The Skaven fought desperately with blade, tooth and claw but their resolve was shattered and their limited courage gone. None escaped. It was a massacre. Before long there were no more foes to kill save the Clawleader itself.

Aethur stood on a carpet of the dead. The lone ratman quivered and shook visibly, holding a rusting blade. Its fur was brown and matted, and its piecemeal armour was an assortment of leather and chainmail. Aethur smiled wolfishly, his eyes gleaming.

'Time to die, sewer filth.'

'Wait-wait, wolf-man! I have information!'

Aethur paused. Since when did the scum of Skavenblight bargain for their lives? He had to admit that he hadn't fought a lot of Skaven, but in his mind they were just like any other chaos scum. They were there to be killed. He glanced behind him. Folco and Ladril crept forwards, weapons at the ready. Alaric hung back.

'What in Ulric's name is this?'

'Kill the beast,' Ladril spat. 'It lies, the Skaven are known for their deceitful ways.'

'Why do you not flee, scum?' Aethur snarled, motioning at the far entrance of the corridor.

'I have information, yes-yes,' the Skaven tittered. 'Golden-bird-men, they force us to deliver, yes-yes.'

Aethur raised an eyebrow. He stepped closer, brandishing his warhammer. The ratman retreated but the templar reached out with one hand and lifted the creature off the ground. It struggled for a moment before coming to the realisation that it was going to die anyway. Its red eyes glowed with hate and it gnashed its needle-like teeth.

'Tell me, before I kill you.' The templar was impatient.

'Doom Hemisphere, yes-yes, kill all it will. Kill all who follow! Die-die humans, die-die!' The monster snickered evilly.

Aethur roared in anger and without a second thought he tore the monster's head from its shoulders with a spray of blood. Tossing the corpse aside he turned to the others.

'Doom-what? Do any of you know what that was about?'

'No idea,' Alaric replied. 'Perhaps some kind of explosive device?'

'I thought you were a wizard, not an engineer,' Aethur growled.

'And I thought you were a human!' The wizard spat back. Talking to a seven-foot tall wolf was disturbing. 'Let's get something straight. Are you what Ladril claims you are?'

'I am blessed of Ulric,' Aethur grunted, turning away. 'And I am no mutant.'

'But, but,' the wizard spluttered, 'you're no better than these…rat-men! Half man, half beast…'

'You know nothing about which you speak!' Aethur roared, turning back and seizing Alaric by the throat. He lifted him up into the air, to glare at him at eye level. Ladril frowned disapprovingly, and the templar released the man. Alaric groaned as he crumpled to the floor.

'Come on, we've got a long way to go.' Aethur rumbled. 'And watch out for explosives.' He trudged towards the far doorway.

'Uh, you won't be able to see…never mind,' Folco rolled his eyes and dashed after his comrade.


	6. Labyrinth

Chapter 5: Labyrinth

For what seemed like hours they descended through a series of twisting tunnels and caverns that were like pockets of air in the earth. Many of the channels looked like they had been chewed from the rock, like the work of some huge tunnelling beast. The excavations of the damned ratmen, Aethur assumed. He was ever wary, fearful that the ceiling would collapse at any moment. Alaric's dim light continued to guide their way, driving back the shadows to a minor extent. But even with the light, there was a constant feeling of uneasy dread. Aethur felt tense, as if any moment there would be an explosion that would send them all to their doom, burying them beneath tons of solid rock. Ulric was on their side though, for now. The air was dank, and the further they travelled the more the weight of the city above pressed down upon them. Every so often they could feel tiny red eyes glinting in the darkness. Aethur would rush at them, intent on spilling blood, only for the rats to scatter like bloated, black cockroaches.

Finally Aethur reverted to human form with a flash of white light and a sorcerous twist of raw power.

'I was waiting for when you'd change back,' the wizard muttered.

'The moons have set,' Ladril breathed, glancing upwards. Time had no meaning down here, in the depths. They knew now that they must have been traversing the Ulricsberg for one night.

'Do you have a problem with my other form?' Aethur snarled at Alaric.

'Well, to be honest, not really. I've seen more monstrous things than a hoary Child of the Wolf God.'

'Watch who you're calling hoary, grey one,' the templar spat back.

'Where are we actually going, anyway? Do you know where the base of the Brethren lies?'

'Not exactly. But I'm not possessed of sorcerous powers of far-seeing and what not.'

'I use the Lore of Shadow, templar. I cannot guide you to their lair.'

'I didn't ask you to, Greymane. My instincts will lead me there without your spells.'

'This is madness! We have no idea where we're going in this labyrinth!'

'I admit the caves are more extensive than I thought…'

While the two bearded men bickered, Folco's eyes danced about the cavern in which they were standing. They had emerged into a gigantic grotto, its seemingly non-existent ceiling vanishing into the blackness above. The tips of huge stalactites could just be seen, protruding into the magelight. They resembled roughened fangs, and unsurprisingly, more red eyes gleamed from between their roots.

'Bats,' Folco said softly, pointing.

'Indeed,' Ladril replied, his gaze following that of the halfling. 'They had better stay where they are, damnable creatures.'

The elf walked around the borders of the cave. Folco promptly followed him. Heaps of mouldering bones lay strewn about its floor. The creatures that these had once belonged to seemed larger than what he'd expect the bats to feed upon. There were a few skulls that resembled those of the Skaven; others were of orcs with their huge tusks and heavy brows. Whole skeletons of cows and other beasts of burden littered the cave. Ladril crouched by the skull of a bull, his gaze flickering over the cracks and dents. Its horns were long and twisted and a sizable hole had been made in its forehead. Etched into the side of the skull was a tiny engraving. It was a symbol, a crescent shape with a wavy line of smoke issuing from one side. A chill ran up Ladril's spine. Wrenching the skull from the rest of the bones, he glanced down at the floor. There were many deep gouges in the rock. He traced them with even steps, realising the implications. They carved a path towards the far entrance, a black maw edged by a cluster of broken stalactites. It was as if some fiend had made this place its den, its back brushing against the top of the opening every time it passed. Grimacing, he strode over to the others. He was about to reprimand them when he noticed something else on the cavern wall. Massive claw marks had been scored deep into the stone. Near here was a dried, black substance that was not unlike blood. Directly beneath the marks was a Skaven corpse, complete with rusting helmet, armour and the splintered kindling of a halberd. The beast had no interest in eating Skaven, then. This was a recent kill; the body was barely decomposed, even though it had been ripped in half.

'Cease your babbling, humans,' Ladril spat, 'we may have greater problems than merely finding the Brethren.'

Aethur stopped arguing at once and pushed past the wizard. Alaric scowled and followed him. Folco was examining the body.

'This is a big monster,' he said, unnecessarily. 'We should tread carefully.'

'I agree with Folco,' Ladril said hesitantly. 'I suggest we continue down that way.' He pointed towards the broken stalactites and showed them the mark upon the skull.

'Tis the mark of the Great Changer,' Alaric gasped. He narrowed his eyes.

Aethur sighed and rubbed his forehead.

'You have a point, elf. Whatever this beast is, the Brethren are feeding it. Hopefully, we can follow its trail back to their lair. And then we kill them all!'


	7. Warpstone

Chapter 6: Warpstone

The tunnel was broad and round, like a gigantic cylinder. Crystals and stalagmites periodically jutted from the floor in clumps, like grass breaking through the cobbles on a roadway. The party travelled in silence. Even Folco felt uneasy as they followed the huge tracks of the mysterious beast. It had left few footprints, instead a smooth trail as if it was dragging itself along the ground. Not that footprints would show up anyway. Occasionally a dull rumble would sound throughout the Ulricsberg and drifts of rock dust would float down from the ceiling. The light was dim, and Alaric had to rest regularly to conserve his power. At such times they sat in darkness, the only sounds were that of the wizard's laboured breathing. Eventually they came to a junction. A flickering light could be seen ahead. As Aethur approached he could make out a small campfire, around which several hunched figures huddled.

'What do you make of that, elf?'

Keeping their distance, the group readied their weapons. Alaric dimmed the magelight while Ladril narrowed his eyes, scrutinising the figures around the fire.

'They are Skaven,' he said cautiously. Folco cursed behind him. 'They are heavily armoured, and I am guessing they are warriors. There are pole-arms scattered on the ground nearby.'

'Storm-vermin,' the halfling spat. 'Well, at least they haven't seen us.'

Suddenly they all turned as many red eyes blossomed from the darkness and black-clad shadows leapt to the attack.

'I'm not sure that they haven't seen us,' Aethur growled, raising his hammer, before battle consumed them once more.

'Die-die, pink-skin!'

Aethur ignored the insult as he tore the first Gutter Runner's head from its shoulders. Turning, he swept his warhammer upwards into another's chin before its blade could make contact. The rat-thing was thrown into the air with a dismayed squeak and Aethur roared his amusement at his foe. Realisation kicked in and he glanced at his companions and then at the storm-vermin. He was sure they could handle themselves while he took out the armoured beasts. After all, it was his job to deal with the biggest threat. Clashing his teeth he rushed towards the black-furred creatures.

Ladril pulled back his bowstring and let fly. The arrow took the Skaven in the throat like a flying serpent. Its sword clattered to the stone floor as another ratman flung itself at him. Another arrow sent it to its doom, puncturing its shoulder. Before a third Skaven could close with him he had notched another arrow and sent it into the beast's skull, right between the eyes. For a moment the Gutter Runner stood still, then Ladril's booted foot shoved it backwards to roll in the dust.

Folco hurled one of his knives towards his assailant. The blade disappeared into the darkness as the Skaven dodged with inhuman agility. Then it was upon him, raking claws slashing at his body. The halfling ducked and weaved, closing his fist around the Skaven's ankle. Confused, it tried to slash at him from above but Folco yanked it from its feet and brought it crashing down. Pulling out another knife he didn't hesitate and stabbed downwards through the Skaven's heart. A set of claws closed on the back of his tunic and yanked him upright. He reversed his elbow into the beast's face, producing an audible crack and a squeak of pain. Smiling, he dropped to the ground, span and drove his dagger into his foe's eye.

The blade punched into Alaric's shoulder. Spinning around with a yelp of pain, he muttered words of power and a grey mist-daemon closed its spindly claws about the skaven's throat. Wrenching the creature away, it flowed over the Skaven and consumed it, throttling and twisting around its limbs. Blood flowing from his shoulder, Alaric gritted his teeth and growled a healing spell. Slowly, the flesh began to knit back together and the pain receded. He cast his eyes about for more Skaven, watching his friends battling against the beasts. Placing his back to the wall, he spread his arms wide and started chanting another spell.

Ladril unsheathed his sword in a blur of motion and parried the incoming blow. Fast as the Skaven moved, the elf was faster. Two strokes later the severed halves of the beast's torso fell apart. But numbers did count for something. Ladril felt hot blood coursing down his back as another Skaven slashed its talons in a wide arc. Grimacing, he turned as it raised its weapons again for another blow. The elf's blade stuck fast in its face, black blood spurting from the deep gash. Releasing his sword, Ladril stumbled backwards against the tunnel wall. Watching the dead rat-thing collapse, he realised a greyish shield was surrounding the party, protecting them from several more of the Gutter Runners. Outside they snarled in animalistic savagery, denied their kill.

'Alaric,' Ladril grunted, sliding ungainly down the wall, leaving a smear of blood. The wizard cursed inwardly. He held his palms outwards, maintaining the shield. When he was satisfied that it would hold, he shouted at the halfling.

'Folco! Get over here and help!'

The halfling was pushing a body away from him.

'Aethur is…'

'I don't care what Aethur's doing,' the wizard spat. 'Your cloak. Ladril's wounded.'

'Of course,' Folco said quickly. He knelt, tearing strips from his garment and aiding the elf. He knew he was a thief, but he did know a little about what to do in such circumstances. 'Don't worry my friend, this won't take a moment.'

'You're right about that,' Ladril groaned, turning over to lie on his stomach.

Aethur stood amidst the broken carcasses of the storm-vermin. He watched, entranced, as the green-tinted flames danced about a chunk of strange, black crystal at their heart. The rock glinted with visible power, green lines criss-crossing its surface like veins. Kneeling, he could feel the terrible warmth of the fire, intoxicating and enthralling. The campfire emitted no smoke. Blind to the fighting behind him, he stretched out a hand…


	8. Beasts

Chapter 7: Beasts

A bloodcurdling roar echoed from the right of the two tunnels. Aethur snapped out his trance and kicked his boot through the Warpstone fire. Glowing embers scattered across the tunnel floor as he shook his head to clear his mind. His gaze flicked back towards his companions. Uttering a roar of his own, he charged back towards the skaven, but they were already fleeing into the shadows. Hefting his hammer he threw it with all his strength. The weapon flew end over end until it made contact with a Gutter Runner's back. There was an ear-splitting crunch as the beast's spine snapped. Satisfied that the foul creatures wouldn't be returning, the templar retrieved his warhammer and waited as the greyish force shield vanished. The wizard sighed with mental exhaustion.

'What in hell was that?' The templar was impatient.

'A shield spell…'

'Not that sorcery, fool,' Aethur snapped. 'Didn't you hear that sound? Some sort of beast.'

'Ladril is wounded,' Folco said, 'but he should be fine, right Ladril?' The halfling stood and assisted the elf to his feet. His torso was swathed in bandages but he stood tall and flexed his narrow shoulders.

'I'll survive.' He glanced up at Aethur. 'As to your beast, I believe it could be anything, from some Skaven monster to a chaos monstrosity. But it sounded…lost.'

'Lost?' Aethur snarled. 'How can you tell?'

'You humans,' Ladril spat back. 'It was more of a…wail, than a roar. It sounded to me as if it was confused. Perhaps it is not a hostile creature.'

'Well, it seemed to scare off the rats,' Folco suggested.

'What creature in these lightless depths would not be hostile? Whatever it is, I'll kill it,' the templar replied, turning and trudging towards the right hand tunnel. 'Come, the trail leads this way.' He gestured vaguely at a cluster of snapped stalactites that lay on the ground like broken teeth.

As they passed the Warpstone fragments, Alaric stooped and picked up a shard in his gloved hand. Ladril and Folco stopped but Aethur continued on.

'Warpstone.' He glanced around, taking in the amount of the stuff lying around the ruined campfire. 'I wonder what vile pact the rat-men have made with the Brethren. To have so much of it that they're burning it for the extra warmth.'

'Pact?' Folco was mystified. 'Is there some sort of unholy alliance?'

'It wouldn't surprise me,' Ladril replied, his brow creasing. 'Perhaps the cultists are giving them vast quantities in return for aid in their plans.'

'Aethur, wolf-man, wait for us!' Alaric called as they hurried to catch up with the templar. 'Wild beast,' he muttered.

'Watch your tongue, ancient one,' a voice returned from the blackness up ahead.

Once again the party was plunged into the deep, following the twisting tunnels beneath the Ulricsberg. Aethur was simply waiting for the next attack. Any moment another bunch of Skaven could turn up, perhaps dragging a mutant beast on rusted chains. He kept his already heightened senses alert, and shifted the warhammer in his grip. He felt hungry for more battle, another encounter, anything to break this cursed tension. While he strode imperiously down the passageway, the others followed more warily, creeping along like stealthy thieves. Any turn could end in a bottomless pit; any corner could hide a slavering monster. Occasionally a distant groan sounded, muffled by the walls of solid rock. Ladril shuddered at the sounds, but whether this was in fear or due to his injury Aethur couldn't tell.

When the undeniable thud of footsteps approached, they all prepared for battle again. Aethur twirled his warhammer, eager to break the silence. Folco unsheathed his dagger and Ladril nocked an arrow to his bow. Alaric began chanting words in the Lingua Praestantia, using a deep tone and spreading his arms wide.

'Here it comes,' Aethur snarled. 'Perhaps the beast returns to its lair.'

'Although that would disadvantage us in more than one way,' Folco mused, his eyes locked on the passage ahead. 'It may have somebody with it!'

Suddenly the silhouette of a large shape loomed around the corner. It was nearly twice the height of a man, its head close to the uneven tunnel roof. Massive arms hung at its sides, heavily muscled, the hands clenched into fists. One grasped a brutal, steel mace. As the figure shambled into the magelight it was slowly illuminated. They could see that the beast wore hob-nailed boots and rugged, leather breeches. A huge, round gut-plate covered its stomach and the fingers ended in nails, not claws. Ladril lowered his bow, understanding what this creature was. He motioned for the others to do the same, but Aethur narrowed his eyes and remained cautious as the magelight drove back the last of the shadow from the beast's scarred face.

'Don't kill!' The ogre bellowed, throwing up the mace in defence with two hands.

There was a moment's silence as the party relaxed. Alaric ceased his chanting.

'Ogres,' Aethur spat. 'What a revelation.'


	9. Word of the Beast

Chapter 8: Word of the Beast

'This way,' the ogre grunted, motioning with his hand towards a dank, moss-infested corridor. As soon as Aethur descended a set of worn steps he grimaced in revulsion. The floor here was covered in a thin layer of water that came up to their knees. It was ice cold and reeked of filth. Droplets of water and the slight tittering of bats echoed against a distant rumble.

'Can someone…uh,' Folco stammered uneasily.

Aethur turned and waded back to the halfling.

'Get up,' he mumbled, and Folco hastily scrambled up onto the templar's broad shoulders.

They had lost the trail of the mysterious monster, but their enormous guide had insisted he could lead them to the Brethren's lair. He had told them his name was Grutmir and that he was the last remaining member of his group – a team sent down into the Ulricsberg in search of a weapon of mass destruction. It had been a mission that had ultimately ended in failure. All he could tell them was that the Brethren had been feeding a ferocious beast and using their 'tricks' on it. Aethur had rolled his eyes. The vocabulary of Ogres was not something to be proud of.

The slimy waters sloshed around them as they moved down the corridor. The floor was slippery and full of holes and dents, making it difficult to walk without the risk of tripping and disappearing beneath the surface of the muck. Ahead the light illuminated nothing but damp walls fading off into the distance.

'How much further must we endure this torment?' The wizard's robes were floating out behind him. Aethur sniggered gently but his eyes slitted as he scoured the passage for an exit.

'Not long now,' Grutmir bellowed, his voice booming in the tunnel.

After what seemed like an eternity wading through the gunk the surface rose a little until it ebbed and flowed about their waists. Impervious, Grutmir plunged on ahead, eager it seemed, to exact vengeance on those who had slain his comrades. As the others struggled, he splashed forward with enthusiasm, finally reaching an intersection at which several arched doorways led away from the flooded section. Hauling his large body from the water, dripping with slime, guano and other foulness, he shouted down to Aethur and his companions.

'Another few rooms, and we're there!'

'Keep it down, you oaf,' Aethur snarled. 'Chances are the enemy have heard us already.' He turned to Ladril and Alaric. 'You lot still trust this…creature?'

'He's all we've got,' the wizard spat back. 'After all, following you wasn't really getting us anywhere.'

Ladril cut in before Aethur could retaliate.

'Normally my kind would never trust an ogre. Yet, as a mercenary, I have come to see the usefulness of ogres. He did give us his word.'

'Yes, and I dare say his martial prowess will be quite helpful,' Folco chirped.

'It's not martial prowess that makes him good at fighting,' Aethur murmured.

Suddenly the knight looked down. Had he felt something brush his ankle?

'I was hoping that wouldn't happen,' he growled. 'Out of the water, now.'

As the party rushed towards the steps something moved behind them, sending a ripple across the surface. Rising up from the filth, like a giant shadow dripping with mud and vileness, the beast reared up and descended towards the party.


	10. Doom

Chapter 9: Doom

Grutmir issued a howl of anger and rushed forwards, barging aside the companions and smashing into the monster. It had the head of a rat-ogre, but its slimy, tentacled body was nothing like that of a rat. Spines and pustules filled with muck protruded from its otherwise sleek bulk.

'Grutmir kill!'

'What the…' Alaric stammered, turning to take in the grotesque apparition.

'Don't look you old fool,' Aethur roared, wrenching the wizard back and pushing him brutally up the steps towards one of the doorways. 'I said get out of the water!' Folco grasped tightly to the templar's pauldrons, his eyes wide with horror.

'It's…'

'Something born of true evil.'

Ladril had leapt clear of the filth and stood beneath the archway, an arrow notched to his bow. His eyes were narrow, and the missile flew out to lodge itself into one of the beast's yellow eyes just as the ogre slammed into it like a living battering ram. Giving vent to a hideous cry, it fell back into the sludge and Grutmir wrestled to keep it down, his mace held lengthways across its boil-encrusted neck. Beneath him the creature writhed and wriggled like a serpent, thrashing about and sending up waves of discoloured water. Two tentacles latched onto his wrists, as if seeking to release his grip on the weapon and relieve the pressure but the ogre grinned and bit down on one of the thing's arms with knife-sized teeth. The thing yowled in pain and black blood spurted to spray against the already grimy walls.

When Grutmir was satisfied that the others were clear, he lifted his mace and with a fluid arc brought it crashing down on the mutant thing's head. There was a massive splash of water and blood and the walls on either side of the passage were spattered with blood and greyish brain matter as the thing's skull imploded under the impact.

For a moment the party stared in silence, taking in the ogre's actions. Grutmir turned and sloshed back through the filth towards them, grinning like a child pleased with himself.

'Now do you trust him?' Alaric sneered at the templar. 'He could've been leading us straight into a trap.'

'Well done, ogre. Lead on.' Aethur nodded curtly at Grutmir.

'What was that thing?' Folco's curiosity reared again as the party moved off, still dripping with the reminders of the last hundred leagues or so of their journey.

'A failed experiment, no doubt one of Clan Moulder's,' the elf replied, flicking back his hair. 'Who knows how it got in here.' He scanned the narrow cleft of a ceiling.

The next chamber was a vast, ovular affair, a cavern that echoed with the constant dripping and the annoyingly familiar sound of nestling bats. Several deep alcoves had been dug out from the walls, lined with sheets of steel and engraved with arcane runes. As they crossed the floor, Aethur noted with suspicion the tiled flagstones forming a strange symbol in the centre of the room. Each was a different colour and there was one in the middle stamped with a mystical icon.

'The All-Seeing Eye,' Alaric mused, raising an eyebrow as he crouched down beside it. The symbol seemed to glitter with unseen power. He moved to touch it…

A dull rumble resounded from somewhere in the deep. Clouds of dust fell from the roof, and as the vibrations grew they dislodged boulders to smash into the floor. The flagstones cracked and splinters of shrapnel were flung across the room.

'What's happening?' Folco shrieked as the cavern shook terribly and the walls began to crumble around them.

'What did you do, old man?' The templar's voice was harsh.

'I didn't do anything,' came the furious reply. 'I nearly touched the stone, but…'

'Doom is upon us,' Ladril hissed, 'Quickly, over there, near the alcove!'

With a terrifying crack the walls came crashing down on either side, threatening to bury them all under a pile of rubble. Grutmir was already on the other side of the room, motioning with his mace. Ladril dodged a falling stalactite nimbly as it dove into the floor like a gigantic spear while Aethur seized up Folco and charged towards the ogre. Cursing their ill-luck, the wizard flung his moistened cloak from him, and, shutting his eyes tightly he reached out to the winds of magic. The boulder that would have crushed him to a bloody pulp stopped in mid-motion, floating gently before being elevated above the wizard. As he made his way across the cavern, rocks and boulders deflected from its surface.

'Grutmir, the boulder!' Aethur pointed at a long slab of rock that had fallen. Understanding immediately, the ogre picked it up with meaty arms and thrust it against the low ceiling of the alcove. It shook for a moment, but seemed to hold. Ladril motioned at the runes carved into the steel; they flickered a bright blue. In the chamber the ceiling was shattering and the cries of alarmed bats was ear-piercing.

'The Doom Hemisphere…' Folco breathed, wrapping his arms around himself.

Huddled beneath the only cover there was, with even this alcove threatening to collapse, they hoped that the quake would soon subside, leaving their lives intact. Alaric began chanting in the Lingua Praestantia; drawing upon all the power he could muster. He knew he would need everything, including his inner reserves, but if that saved the lives of his comrades, it was worth it, this time.


	11. Escape

Chapter 10: Escape

The twisted beast stood at least twenty feet tall at the shoulder. Although there was little left of its wings save two ragged stumps, its muscles rippled beneath golden scales, flecked through with streaks of blue that constantly shifted and swirled. Several fist-sized chunks of warpstone had been driven into its flesh, producing hideous mutations in the form of giant tentacles and squirming mouths. Four massive limbs ending in deadly talons the size of scimitars pounded the earth as the monster powered forwards like a juggernaut. The cavern shook and rubble fell from the roof, accentuating its heavy tread. A serpent-like tail tipped with deadly spines lashed from side to side, sending cultists flying to smash against the cavern walls like broken puppets and its enormous jaws sliced the air. The gleaming teeth snatched one black-robed man and flicking its head back, the creature flung him away shrieking until his cries were cut brutally short when he slammed into the ceiling.

Melic Rosencrantz watched his pet with mild amusement. He was secure on a high ledge, safe from the carnage raging below. Not that he was in any danger anyway, he thought. This was a greater achievement than he had expected. His lord was pleased, it seemed, and he certainly would ensure that this opportunity would not be missed. The Empire was in flames, and now would be just the right time to unleash his divine creation. The sorcerer grinned as the mutated dragon roared, the vibrations bringing down a shower of stalactites, one of which impaled one of the acolytes, nailing him to the floor. Then, with the bulk of the Brethren slain, the beast shook its head warily, its eyes glimmering dangerously. The wild gaze fell upon the magister and suddenly Melic felt a little afraid. Quashing his fear, he stared back down his nose, lifting an eyebrow.

'A little upset, are we, dear dragon? Don't worry, everything will soon be fine.'

The scarlet eyes glittered and in a flash Melic realized something was very wrong. As the dragon started forwards, thundering like a titan on the move, the magister considered the possibility that the creature had broken his hold on it. Impossible as it would seem, the beast certainly wasn't responding to his mental commands.

'Damn you,' he spat as he raised his arms and began gathering power to him like a cloak. It felt like a hot wind, sweeping into his mind and body, giving him the energy required. But before he could speak the words to the spell, a new howl of rage echoed around the cavern. It was the howl of a wolf.

A huge, snowy figure armoured in full plate and with the snarling visage of a wolf leapt upon the dragon's scaly back. Between its fangs it held a steel warhammer. Digging his claws deep into the flesh, Aethur tore huge chunks from the dragon's hide as it bellowed in pain. The prehensile tail came up to stab the wolfman but Aethur dodged aside with ease and the spines plunged down into the beast. Releasing his warhammer he twirled it about his head and brought it crashing down, driving the spines deep into the dragon's body.

'No!' Melic's eyes were wide with horror. 'Resist, my pet! Expel it from you!'

'Too late, sorcerer.' The voice came from his left and he span, summoning his staff with a gesture. There stood a man swathed in shadow, his eyes shards of flint. 'By now the venom will be coursing through its tainted veins. And die it will!'

'Whoever you are, you will die alongside your Ulrican friend!'

'Perhaps. But not in this day or age!'

Folco watched with fascination as the wizards duelled. Bright flashes of iridescent energy clashed with clouds of darkest night, bolts of purple power were blocked with daggers of Aethyric energy and shining blasts of red fire were deflected with mists of gloom. It was as if a storm were raging on the shelf of rock.

'Folco, away from there.' Ladril put his hand on the halfling's shoulder. 'It would not do were you to be struck by stray magic.' Allowing himself to be steered away, he turned his gaze to the ogre, Grutmir. The large warrior was raining blow after blow after blow upon the hapless dragon, crushing bones, knocking its limbs from under it and cracking ribs that should've withstood the most terrible of wounds. Instead blood flowed like a river from its dying body, its wailing filling the atmosphere with tragedy. Aethur himself was striking the beast on the base of its neck, favouring his warhammer regardless of his current appearance. Such was his loyalty to Ulric.

'Is there naught that we can do?' The halfling was impatient.

'It seems the battle has already been fought in greater part,' the elf replied. He indicated the corpses of the Brethren. 'It appears that the ancient one rebelled against Rosencrantz.'

'A good thing to be sure,' Folco said, satisfied. 'What horror would it otherwise have caused to the Empire of mankind?'

'It does not bear contemplating.'

'There is something we can help with though.' The halfling spotted a wounded acolyte, crawling away towards the cavern's exit. Unsheathing a large dagger, Folco bounded over to the defenceless man and rolled him over, the weapon pointed at his throat. Ladril followed, interested in this show of bravery. For a halfling.

'Cultist! Tell us of the alliance, between your brethren and the rat-men!'

'What…I'll tell you nothing!'

'Oh you will, unless you wish to die, human filth,' Ladril spat.

'The assassins will kill us all anyway,' the cultist groaned before realizing what he had said. 'Prepare to meet your destiny, fools! The shadows come!' He drew his own dagger and plunged it into his heart.

'Shadows?' Folco was confounded.

'Shadows indeed, young one!' Ladril span about and brought up his blade to parry as a dark-robed figure launched itself from the gloom. Red eyes twinkled from beneath a black hood. 'Eshin sewer-rat! You are no match for the likes of I!'

'We shall look-see,' the assassin chittered as the two combatants leapt into a squall of blades. Sparks flew while Folco skirted the pair, wondering if he should intervene. But the elf and rat-beast were so fast he couldn't risk hitting Ladril.

'So, in exchange for vast amounts of warpstone you carried out the attacks on the guild,' the elf shouted at his inhuman opponent. 'I wonder what artefact it is you wanted, and whether you obtained it for your vile experiments!'

'We kill-kill, take-take. Artefact now ours-take-take!'

Blades flashing, the assassin grinned evilly and stabbed down at Ladril's shoulder. The elf twisted but this time the weeping blade punched into his flesh and the ratman gave a shrill cry of triumph.

'Now-now, elf-swine, you die!'

'Ladril!' Folco yelled in dismay. He surged forwards, dagger raised.

Ladril gasped in pain as the poison coursed swiftly through his veins. With one last effort he pulled the assassin in close and gutted it with his sword.

'If my time has come, then so has yours.'

The tip impaled the foul creature, protruding from its back and it let out another cry, this one of agony. Shoving the stinking corpse from him, he fell to his knees. Slowly, he lay down, the beat of his heart slowing in his chest. Folco kicked the skaven aside and kneeled by his friend.

'Ladril…'

'Don't worry, little one. I have fought many battles, lived many centuries. Perhaps longer than I should have. It was good to fight alongside you, friend Folco.'

He closed his eyes and Folco swallowed hard.

'Now, Melic Rosencrantz, I will put an end to your meddlings,' Alaric grunted, raising his staff, which crackled with visible power. Dispelling the magister's next spell with a word, he waved his hand and a doppelganger appeared behind Melic. The two grey wizards swept around the sorcerer, confusing him with mental images and vision of darkness. When the magister was able to cast them from his mind, he knew not which of the foes to face. Cursing, he weaved energy about himself, protecting his body with threads of multicoloured power. Breathing heavily, his body battered and drained, he slitted his eyes and gazed at the wizard he believed to be his foe.

'You may have bettered me this time, Greymane, and I hear that my pet is dying. But I am not done with the hated Empire yet!' He launched himself forward, changing shape as he did so. The doppelganger shifted and swirled in a ripple of mist as he passed through it. The magister's eyes gleamed as he sprouted wings, an eagle's aquiline beak and hooked, razor talons. Then, with a flurry of feathers and a defiant screech, he was gone.

The dragon's corpse sagged and collapsed, sending up a cloud of dust and small rocks. There was a flash of light and Aethur leapt, wolf-like, to the ground. He clasped forearms with Grutmir.

'Good work, ogre, you've a fine mace-arm.'

'It's an honour, wolf-man.'

'Likewise.' Aethur turned to Folco. 'I take it the Brethren…'

'They were dead, already slaughtered,' Folco grumbled. 'Light work really.' He led them over to the body of Ladril. 'Our friend has fallen, battling the vile rat-man.'

A cold silence filled the air until Aethur broke it with a heavy curse.

'Damn the gods,' he grunted. He kneeled by the elf and sighed heavily. 'So the adventure takes its toll…'

'He will be remembered,' Alaric said irritably as he materialized next to the halfling. 'The best Avenger there ever was, true to his comrades and valorous to the cause of light. But…no one lives forever. As for Rosencrantz…he escaped.'

'We did what we could,' Aethur growled. 'I am grateful to you all.'

'We should bury Ladril here in the Ulricsberg and then make camp. Only then should we return to Middenheim,' Folco said calmly. 'Our mission is done.'

'There is one thing to say,' the wolf templar rumbled. He paused, shutting his eyes. When he opened them, the gold was tinged with sadness. 'I'm leaving.'

'What?' Folco trembled. 'Whatever do you mean?'

'I'm not going back,' Aethur snarled. 'Tell Barathor I too…fell in battle. He will understand.'

For a moment the four comrades stood in companionable silence.

'We'll pass on the message,' Folco nodded, placing his fist over his heart.


End file.
